


D'Ihtiiar - The Chosen One

by Dark_K



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Crazy stuff, F/M, M/M, Multi, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_K/pseuds/Dark_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decision not to go after Peter Pettigrew was made like so many other decisions of Sirius Black were made: just because, in that exact moment, he did not feel it was time to go. SLASH. HET. THREESOME. Blaise.Harry - Sirius.OCs - Many more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	D'Ihtiiar - The Chosen One

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing you recognize belongs to me. Please, memorize this notice. Thank you.
> 
> SLASH.
> 
> THREESOME.
> 
> Heed the warnings, and if this is not your cup of tea, close your window.
> 
> D'Ihtiiar means, as far as online translators and dictionaries could help me, The Chosen One.
> 
> Also, the names of the chapters are, actually, the numbers in Arabic. The decision to use Arabic is something to do with the plot of the story, and not just some random choice.
> 
> Things star a bit slow in this story, but will move a lot faster after the third chapter, so, as always, patience, little grasshopers.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this.

_D'Ihtiiar_

_The Chosen One_

_Waahid_

If you know how to listen, you can hear the wind sing.

If you know how to look, you can see the change dancing on the leaves carried by the song the wind itself sings.

If you know how to feel, you can touch the nuances of the change that dance on the leaves carried by the song the wind sings when it touches your skin, and then sweeps the world, taking with it a piece of you, leaving behind a piece of itself.

The Wind, that night, was blowing freezing with the cold of the autumn preannouncing an early winter. That night, the song of the wind was deaf, it was pain, and it was death.

There was no dance in the song. There was, maybe, a funeral march in the air of tired steps reaching the gates of the destroyed house, the sound of a motorcycle, the despair which could make a heart speed, freeze, stop.

The dance was made only by the tears, in a continuous ballet, almost morbid to look at. Pale and colorless dancers falling one after the other with no grace, touching the ground and staining the ashes that were carried by the wind, becoming a part of the song heard all over the night which would haunt and at the same time bring smiles to a whole world.

A world that called itself magical, but had forgotten the song of the Wind, and the lullaby of the Earth a long time ago. A world which did not care to listen to the sound of the birds, which did not understand the cries of the Air. A magical world with no magic, just as grey the ground over which fell the tears that came from eyes just as grey as the ground they fell over.

From ashes to ashes, in the rhythm of the mute song that cpuld be heard amidst the sounds of death and destruction.

And from the sounds came the cry – a pure, simple and clean cry of a child marked by evil a child who could still hear the pain of the Air, and feel the rhythm of the dance around him. A child who could feel with every fiber of his powerful soul, contained in a yet so small body, the evil which run away and spread around them. The child was crying simply because it could feel it was the time to cry.

And from the cries of despair and pain, of fear, of abandonment and loneliness was born the doubt. The tears in grey had to stop to comfort the ones in green. And just like every single decision that change so many lives, this decision was made by the one who could not hear the Earth, but could hear the Child. It was made without thought, without rationalizing, without any deep consideration about how that would affect everyone's future.

The decision not to go after Peter Pettigrew was made like so many other decisions of Sirius Black were made: just because, in that exact moment, he did not feel it was time to go.

In the depth of his soul consumed by the easy magic of that world so grey, Sirius Black could still hear, even if only a little, the song of the Wind that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this one is COMPLETELY insane. Its plot is very different, and Harry will be COMPLETELY different, and Sirius will be… well, punished. I might say there'll be a bit of Dumbledore bashing, but not in the usual way, and things will be, well, different.
> 
> At least I hope so.
> 
> I have four chapters for this story ready, I just have to translate them into English, and then continue it from there.
> 
> Let me know what you think.
> 
> REVIEW!


End file.
